


Amicus Usque ad Aras

by CheshirePrime



Category: The Borgias
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:00:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshirePrime/pseuds/CheshirePrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An account of how Juan Borgia came to realize the powers of fraternal love and filial duty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Amicus Usque ad Aras

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



> Written for Alley_Skywalker, Yuletide 2011. Thanks to A and B for beta work. The title means "a friend as far as the altars;" in other words, a friend except in what is contrary to one's religion. Happy Holiday-of-choice to you, recipient; I very much enjoyed your prompt, and I hope this story will meet at least some of your hopes for it.

A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.  
-King Solomon

Deos enim religuos accepimus, Caesares dedimus. (The gods were handed down to us, but we created the Caesars ourselves.)  
-Unattributed

✠✠✠✠

 _Cesare,_ thought Juan, not for the first time, _is an idiot._

Juan stood in a press of bodies, watching the anointing of the new Cardinals. "It is important that you be seen," his father had told him, and Juan understood what that meant. There was conspiracy afoot; with all three of them gathered in one room, no accusation, however true, could be proven.

The problem was that once again their father had consulted, not Juan, but Cesare. Juan knew the plot, of course-- he had heard His Holiness drop that none-too-subtle hint in Cesare's ear-- but it had been between his father and Cesare. As it always was.

It was disgusting. Juan was to be the leader of the papal armies. Cesare was to be their father's successor-- a cardinal today; a pope at some point in the distant future, when their holy father had gone to his eternal reward. (And hopefully it would be well into the future. Juan harbored no illusions of what position he might hold if his brother ascended to power.) And yet the leader of the papal armies had not been consulted on this affair with della Rovere.

It was just possible that their father let Cesare dabble in such things to keep himself happy. Rodrigo Borgia's eldest son never had been content with his lot in life, and small wonder, Juan thought. In the normal order of things, their positions would have been reversed-- Cesare, the first son, with the sword and the army and the girls, and Juan, the second, with the robes and a life of monastic emptiness. No surprise that Cesare would want the life every other first-born son inherited. After all, Juan wouldn't have traded him for the world.

And yet Cesare simply took what their father gave him! He did as he was told; he shut his mouth and breathed the incense and kissed their father's feet. Cesare had never, to his brother's knowledge, even fought for what might have been his right. Which carried that verse about the meek inheriting a little too far, to Juan's way of thinking. _Yes, my brother is a fool-- and his loss is very definitely my gain._

✠✠✠✠

It was some weeks later when the Moor arrived. "Your new brother," His Holiness had called this stranger who was to be installed in their household. Djem, for his part, seemed instantly at home with them. He slid in among the Borgia children with no friction whatsoever, teasing Lucrezia and Gioffre, deferring to Cesare's authority. "As befits a younger brother," Cesare said, his eyes on Juan.

Juan refused to be cowed. "I pay respect where it is due, brother. You are not my father."

Cesare looked down at his new red robes, but said nothing, so Juan felt free to ignore him.

Djem was good company, though. Even Juan had to admit it. He could and did tell wonderful stories, fantastic tales of things he had seen and done-- and they never came off as boasting. Rather, Djem shared with his audience: his life, his world, his adventures. The world grew bigger when he talked.

"You should come and see my home sometime," he said to Juan, once. "I have seen yours; I would like to reciprocate your hospitality." His face fell. "However, I am not sure I could do it, were we to go to my brother's court. It would be a dangerous place for anyone who was perceived as my ally."

"I am the Pope's son," Juan reminded him. "No one would dare harm me. And even if they tried, I could defend myself."

"Perhaps you could, at that, my Christian brother." Djem clasped his arm, warmly. "Will you try it, tomorrow morning? We could match ourselves against each other, each in our own style."

Juan grinned. "Wear something you won't mind getting dirtied, then. I intend to see you on the ground."

But the next day his smile was no longer, for Djem proved to be his equal at the very least. It was just possible, Juan reflected, that the Moor might actually be a better swordsman than he-- at least, with that funny curved blade of his.

"I wonder how you'd do with a proper sword," he mused that afternoon, when they had put away their weapons and retreated to a hot bath.

"To my way of thinking," Djem said, "It is not _my_ sword that is improper. At home, that straight blade would be the curiosity."

"But you are not at home. You are in Rome."

"Yes," Djem agreed, "and I promise you, I have heard the saying about doing as the Romans do quite often enough." He smiled, taking the sting out of his words. "I will learn your sword if you wish to teach me, my brother. But I would teach you my weapon as well. And then, should you ever be faced with men who fight as I do, you will know what they are about, and how to defend against it."

It was infuriating when Cesare called him brother. It was, somehow, warming to hear the same epithet from Djem. Juan held out his hand. "As you will, then."

✠✠✠✠

Swordplay led to knifeplay, which led to wrestling, and here Djem proved himself to be even more adept than Juan had suspected. Again and again the Moor pinned him to the ground, until they both were panting, glistening with sweat, and sliding against each other as they grappled for advantage. The two of them pressed close, jostling each other, and finally Juan got the upper hand, throwing a leg across Djem's prone body and straddling him.

"Well," he taunted, "do you yield?"

"Never," and Djem, laughing, performed a smooth motion that reversed their positions, lying across Juan's chest. "Do you?"

"Never." But try as he might, he could not struggle out from under his partner. All he did, in fact, was grow more and more agitated-- and with embarrassing, if predictable, results.

"But why do you flush so?" Djem asked, and then, understanding the matter: "Ah. I see." But still he maintained his seat astride Juan's hips.

"Are you happy?" Juan snapped at him. "Fine. I yield. You have won."

"But in fact I have lost." Djem finally slid to one side, sitting beside Juan with his legs crossed-- a position which displayed that he was himself in a similar state. "For you are angry with me, and I do not understand why."

Juan pushed himself up to a sitting position and glared. "Is it not clear enough?"

"We tested our bodies. They responded." Djem's honest eyes met Juan's, with no small amount of puzzlement. "Is this not the case?"

"Men do not do such things here. Or, when they do, it is a sin."

"I see." But Djem's face made it plain that he did not. "Well, it is of no consequence, Juan. We shall say, then, that this is enough for the day?"

Juan sighed. It had been a long time since he'd tested himself like this in play, rather than work-- even to his friends, a Borgia did not show weakness. Djem was one of their household now, though, which granted Juan a certain freedom with him. But if he stopped now, would Djem, still confused, be willing to start over tomorrow?

"Look," he offered finally, "it isn't anything you did. It's merely that when things get so-- heated-- we consider it proper to stop until we have more control of ourselves." If he had stopped there, it might all have been fine. But his curiosity got the best of him, and so he asked, "What would you do at home?"

"It would depend on who we were with." Djem met his eyes again, and this time there was almost a sense that he was _measuring_ Juan against some standard. "If we were with someone we did not know, or someone who was training us... then we would do as you do."

Juan raised an eyebrow. "But with someone else?"

Now it was Djem's turn to flush, the color just visible beneath his dusky skin. "If it were someone... closer. If it were play, rather than work. If those were the circumstances, then we would likely keep going as we were."

Juan caught his breath. "For how long?"

"Until we were ready to stop. Until it was too uncomfortable to keep going."

"And when you did finally stop?"

"Then, we might take ourselves off to our wives. Or we might simply... meet each other's needs."

That was something Juan knew about. Sin it might be, but a common enough one between boys of a certain age-- if those boys were lucky enough to have a trustworthy friend. He, himself, had not had that luxury. He cast a sidelong glance at Djem--

\--and caught Djem doing the same to him. The look that passed between them was measuring, yes. And, clearly, they met each other's standards. "Brothers in arms," his father had called them, with something like approval. And what they were talking about was less than brotherly, yes, but if the goal was for Djem to truly be one of them-- well. This was certainly one way to accomplish that.

"Shall we, then?" he said. Djem gave a fluid shrug, a "come at me" gesture, so Juan did. They rolled together on the floor, pinning each other and then letting themselves be pinned, until both had reached a panting, shuddering completion.

It became something like a ritual, then, that hour in the salle, when they put away knives and swords and went for each other bare-handed. That time was theirs alone, uninterrupted, and they grew close.

Djem still called him "my brother," but Juan, to whom a brother was an unlovely thing, simply called Djem "mine."

✠✠✠✠

It might have gone on like that indefinitely if not for Lucrezia. It was impossible to miss the gallant courtesy with which Djem treated her, but then again, Djem treated them all with that same courtesy. Juan knew by now that it was the result of a lifetime spent in exile-- Djem was charming because he had to be, though his manners were made no less sincere by necessity.

And it wasn't as if Juan were jealous of Djem's fondness for Lucrezia. After all, everyone was fond of Lucrezia. His beautiful little sister had been charming men since she had first been old enough to toddle around the yard; she did it as naturally as she breathed. Even Cesare, hardly more than a babe himself, had fallen under her spell, abandoning his games with Juan to follow after their sister like an overprotective nurse. It was no use being jealous of Lucrezia for stealing men's hearts, however much it stung to eternally take second place to his younger sister.

No, it was the conversation with his father that settled things. Pope Alexander, it seemed, had spied Djem and Lucrezia dancing, and while he cared little for the idea of his daughter falling in love with a Moor, he cared still less for the damage a potential love affair, even only a rumored one, might do to his daughter's bargaining power.

"Four hundred thousand ducats," His Holiness told Juan. "It would be enough to settle Lucrezia's dowry and see her wed, and we would have the Sultan's goodwill on top of that, which surely could not hurt our position."

And Juan, who did love his Moor, also prided himself on being the realist of the family. Cesare thought in ideals; Lucrezia thought in romance; it was Juan who thought about how the family would maintain itself. And so it was that he found himself asking Cesare to loan him his pet assassin.

Cesare, of course, said no.

Juan could have begged. He could have reasoned. He could have pointed out a thousand justifications. But Borgias did none of these things. They demanded, and if the world did not stir itself to meet their demands, why then, a true Borgia must help the world along.

✠✠✠✠

Juan had always believed that if there was only one way a thing could be done, then that way would have to work out. He had found only one appropriate method of death for Djem, and therefore, it would work.

It did not. Instead they found themselves in chaos. Djem had looked up at Cesare with blood staining his mouth and chin, and Cesare had _not_ looked at Juan. He hadn't needed to.

"Take Lucrezia out of here," he had said, in a tone that allowed no argument (even if Juan could have made one). When he returned without his sister, Cesare had gotten Djem put to bed, cleaned if not comfortable, and somehow even found time to change his own robes.

They had met, hastily, with Juan's hired assassin and with Micheletto, a meeting which had only deepened Juan's anguish. Weeks of agony, Micheletto had said, and Juan knew at that moment how this was going to end.

Despite that knowledge, despite Borgia honor, he would never have made it down that hallway without Cesare's iron grip. His brother held him firmly, first by his elbow, and then, when Juan's footsteps lagged, by the scruff of his neck, as if he were a naughty puppy having his nose rubbed in a mess.

"Console me," Djem pleaded, but Juan had no words for him.

Never, looking back, could he recall the rest of that meeting in any detail. Only the sudden wounded clarity in Djem's fevered eyes when he realized the betrayal, and then the all-too-brief struggle that followed, like some nightmare reflection of their romps in the salle.

Cesare's scornful disapproval stung sharply, and the sting was enough for Juan to get up the stairs to his own room. _Your fault, brother. I asked your help, and you denied it. This is as much your fault as mine._ But safe in his bed, he could not escape the sight of Djem's body, sprawled helpless in death, and tears came unbidden to his eyes. One fell, then another, and another, until finally sleep granted him a temporary oblivion.

✠✠✠✠

The next day, Juan did a thing he had vowed never to do: he visited the confessional during Cesare's appointed hour. He had known he would have to make confession, of course. Murder was a venial sin. But he had intended to confess to his father, who had, after all, all but ordered the crime.

He couldn't do it. His Holiness would not understand (or would pretend not to understand) the uneasiness Juan still felt. He _could not_ tell his father about the way he saw Djem's eyes whenever he closed his own. But Cesare-- well, his brother might despise him, but Cesare would understand.

And, perhaps, if he knew-- he might despise Juan a little less. Not that Cesare's opinion mattered, really. It didn't. Let him think what he wanted, and Juan would continue on with his life just as he always had.

He stepped into the booth and heard Cesare's quick inhalation when he realized who was on the other side of the screen. "Forgive me, father, for I have sinned." He had been tempted to leave out the "father," but he did not quite dare. Needling his brother, especially right now, was not worth the risks.

"I have killed my brother." He did not miss the change in Cesare's posture. "He was my dear friend, and my foster brother, and he should have been mine to protect-- but I killed him. He loved and trusted me, and I killed him."

"And do you repent of your sin?"

Juan leaned his head against the screen, too tired to bother with any false response. Honesty came slow to his lips, but after all he was the son of a pope and the brother of a cardinal, and in this moment all he wanted was for the truth to set him free. "Part of me-- repents with all my heart. I loved him and I grieve for him, and all that comforts me is that he died knowing who it was who did the deed. For if he had died believing that I had been good to him, I would want to die myself. But another part of me... I killed him at the behest of another. I did it for my family, because it was necessary, because there was no way around it. And I would do it again, even knowing how I would feel afterward. Because my holy father requested it, and in the end I cannot tell him no."

He stopped, breathing as hard as if he had run the length of the city. Tears threatened again, but this time he forced them down with a will, waiting for Cesare to assign his penance.

But-- "Your regret is your penance, little brother," said Cesare, with a softness to his voice that Juan had only heard him use with Lucrezia until now. "Your memories of Djem shall be a penance, too, for I think you will not soon forget him. There is nothing else I can give you but absolution, and that I give wholeheartedly, for I too know the limits of a son's autonomy." He raised his hand to the screen, and Juan fitted his own hand against the blurred outline. "Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."

And together they said, "Amen."


End file.
